


What the Fox Knew

by Deenerann



Series: Fleabag Snippets [3]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:15:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deenerann/pseuds/Deenerann
Summary: It's been a couple months since the end of everything. Fleabag is barely surviving- then the unexpected happens.





	What the Fox Knew

2 months, 5 days, 2 hours, and 34 minutes since I’ve seen him

I’ve been keeping tabs on both the time _and_ him.

I shouldn’t be, but how can I not?

I still love him. The feeling hasn’t passed—not yet. I’m not sure it ever will. His faith in that was sadly misplaced. Maybe he was just telling _himself_ that. In fact, he’s probably already over me. Too bad I can’t be that cavalier about _him_.

Just my luck—to finally fall in love and have it be with the world’s most unattainable man. Funny thing is, he’s the absolute opposite of a commitment-phobe. He’s completely committed to an all-powerful, imaginary being. How could I ever compete with that? I don’t know why I ever hoped I could.

The first couple weeks after the wedding I avoided going anywhere near the church, but I slowly got over my fear of running into him. Now I walk past it occasionally—but only late at night—after 9:30, when I leave the café. He should be asleep, so it’s safe. I keep walking past the stone façade and imagining him in there, curled up in bed, his beautiful neck in full view.

I’m becoming addicted to the pain of imagining him.

He’s probably not thinking of me at all.

No matter. I still need to know he’s okay, so I’ve found ways to check up on him.

The newsletters were Claire’s idea. I found copy during one of my clandestine walks. It was sitting on a bench near the church, and I grabbed it without thinking. There was a picture of him on the front page, looking beautiful in his solid black outfit. God, as much as I hate that he chose the church, those clothes really suit him. Anyhow, I took the newsletter home and poured over every article. Claire found me crying over his restaurant review—a scathing piece about some café on the other side of town. I’m definitely glad he’s never written about Hillary’s.

Claire’s been staying with me while she’s in London. She splits her time between Finland and here and she’s become my de facto roommate. It’s been lovely having her around, at least part-time. I’ve been so fucking lost and lonely without him, and having human companionship nearby is idyllic.

It seems so ridiculous. We only knew each other a couple months, but it felt more like a lifetime of friendship. And love. So much fucking love. I miss everything about him.

I’m a mess.

Shit. I was talking about the newsletters, sorry.

Anyhow, after Claire found me crying, she pulled some strings with a couple acquaintances and had copies of the weekly newsletter sent to my flat. I have a pile of them by my couch so I can grab them whenever I need to see his face. That’s pretty much always. I’m not sure it it’s helping or making things worse.

I’m not even sure how _he’s_ doing, if I base it on the tone of the newsletters. His restaurant reviews are growing moodier by the week. The photographs of him aren’t much better. He looks sad, the usual twinkle in his eyes and ready smile missing. I’m becoming more than a little worried—and somewhat vindicated. At least I don’t appear to be alone in my misery. I just don’t know if his misery is about me or about the breaking of his vows.

I’ve considered returning to the church, either to hide in the back and just listen, or to go to confessional and vomit out all my feelings to him. I can’t do either—he’s asked me not to and I need to respect that—but God, I _want_ to.

So, instead, I drag myself to the café every day and immerse myself in guinea pigs and loneliness. Even on Chatty Wednesday, with a mess of people surrounding me, I still feel lonely. Nothing feels right anymore—nothing is solid. I feel like my life is slipping through my fingers and I can’t quite capture it.

I used to be able to push everything down with random sex and bad habits, but I’m not doing any of that anymore. I’ve even stopped smoking. I still have an occasional G&T and a cry, but I’m trying really hard to cut back on drinking. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m punishing myself.

Maybe I’m trying to heal.

Either way, nothing seems to be working. I feel absolutely awful. Lately, I’ve even been waking up with an upset stomach—no doubt an after effect of my dreams. They all involve him. They haven’t tapered off, not in the least. Every time I close my eyes, he's there.

I head home from the café and get off the bus earlier than I should. I want to walk past the church. It’s stupid. It adds at least an hour to my night and involves far too much unnecessary walking, but exercise is good for me. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

The church is dark. It’s 9:45 and he’s got to be asleep. I look longingly at the green door of his rectory and force myself not to knock. It’s easier to stop myself, knowing Pam is in there. If she wasn’t, it would be much harder to keep myself from waking him up just for another late night visit.

I miss him so much it’s killing me.

There’s a rustle in the bushes and I stop, staring in the direction of the noise.

A fox steps out, directly in my path.

I jump backward, but it doesn’t move toward me. It just watches me, its eyes dark in the moonlight.

“Hello.” I keep my voice low. “Still tormenting him, are you? What’s up with that?”

It just watches me. Then, the strangest feeling washes over me. I almost feel understood.

There’s more rustling, and two small pups jump out of the bushes and stand next to their mother. They’re so adorable, I have to smile.

“Oh! Aren’t you cute? Hello there. He probably hates you too, huh? I’m not sure how he could, you fluffy little things. I just want to squeeze you.”

The mother fox watches me and cocks her head. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore—she’s staring at my midsection with an unsettling expression. I step backward and place my hands over my stomach. I’m not in the mood to be disemboweled in front of the man I love’s church. That would be messy and hard to explain.

“I won’t touch your babies, I promise,” I stammer. “Please don’t kill me.”

She glances back up at my face and I swear she raises a furry eyebrow. She glances at my stomach again and sniffs at one of her pups. Then straight back to my stomach.

What the hell?

An uneasy feeling comes over me. Wait a minute! It’s been two months since my night with him. I’ve been so distraught that I haven’t been paying much attention to anything else in my life. When is the last time I stocked up on sanitary supplies? Not for a while—and I _have_ been getting sick in the mornings lately.

“Oh my God,” I mutter, my skin going clammy. I press a hand against my stomach. “Oh my _God_.”

There’s been no one else since him and I was careful with everyone before him. I take birth control, but I never go without condoms, not ever. I only did with him—well, because it was _him_. He meant more to me than anyone ever had and I was definitely caught up in the moment. Plus, he couldn’t be _more_ Catholic.

“Oh my God,” I whisper again, starting to panic.

The fox nudges her babies back into the bush and gives me a long assessing look before she disappears in after them.

Glancing back at the church, I try to keep myself from vomiting on the sidewalk. I take off in a dead run towards home.

I definitely need to stop by Boots first.


End file.
